First Trauma
by girlgeekjf
Summary: Batman had been careful with Tim so far, but inevitably being a vigilante will at times lead to injuries. The reaction to Tim's first serious injury while on patrol with Batman and Nightwing.
1. Chapter 1

**First Trauma**

 **I have spent the last nine months delving into the Batcannon. I love all the Batfamily, but Tim Drake is my favorite character; I bought and read all the Robin and Red Robin issues and it was totally worth it. I can't really decide from the comics when Tim received his first serious injury, so I thought I would speculate about that. This is set somewhere after Knightfall and before Contagion as far as comic stories go. (Updated July 26- I noticed some typos and formatting errors).**

 **Batman and associated characters belong to DC. I own nothing but I like borrowing them.**

Tim was blinking sluggishly but he really wasn't seeing anything yet, just basically getting the impression that it was dark. Bedroom? Not unless he had begun decorating his room with moldy food and dead animals: wherever he was, it reeked. His stomach turned, but the nausea seemed to come from more than just the smell—he felt quite dizzy. He remembered Bruce's cure for nausea: close your eyes and take a deep breath. He started to inhale deeply, but instead gave out a gasping cry of pain. His chest felt like it had just exploded. He tried to lift his head up out of the puddle that was matting his hair, wanting to get a look at the damage to his chest, but he didn't get far before sharp pain in the back of his head and neck had him seeing stars.

Unintentional tears were welling behind his mask as he squeezed his eyes shut, and he felt his heart thumping much faster than he knew it should be. He must be panicking. He would force himself to snap out of it, just like he was trained to. He WOULD take control of his body so he could process the situation in his mind, come up with a logical plan, and get back into action.

He took inventory of himself. He could tell he was in his Robin suit by the snuggly-fitted, heavy feel of the Kevlar, which at the moment just made breathing deeply more difficult. Steady, shallow breaths might give him the most oxygen. He forced his eyes open again. He couldn't get them to focus for a few seconds, Dark shapes turned blurry and doubled, then resolved into a narrow alley way. The buildings above him looked like they were almost touching at the tops, silhouetted against a very dim evening light. He could just make out a darker shape beside him out of the corner of his eye, big, bulky and smelly—probably a dumpster. Had he fallen? Maybe, but not off the buildings, he figured he would have to be in a lot more pain if that were true, plus the angle he was at would make more sense with the dumpster. That shorter fall didn't explain all his pain though. The idea of getting up flitted through his mind but his inner voice of reason gave a hysterical laugh at that. The voice of reason more helpfully added that if he was Robin, Batman would not be far off, so he should call for help.

He was about to argue with himself that calling for help could end up as calling-for-half-a-dozen-more-thugs-to-beat-up-on-me, when he was saved from having to make that choice by the sound of Nightwing's worried voice saying "Batman, by the dumpster, I found him."

Footsteps crunched over something in the alley and a moment later Nightwing was in his view, lighter skin and the reflective lenses of his mask easy to pick out among the darker shapes surrounding him. Nightwing crouched down quickly and reached out a hand to Tim's neck, his fingers resting on Tim's pulse point and his thumb on Tim's jawline. He moved his thumb, gently tapping on Tim's face as he said, clearly and with a calm that sounded forced, "Tim, can you hear me? What happened?"

Tim started to take a deeper breath, trying to assure Dick he was awake behind the mask, but he stopped with a gasp with caused Dick to startle slightly. Tim had to get it through his head: breathing deeply=bad idea. After a second or two he started to get words out, but his shallow breaths made his speech faint and choppy. "I can hear you. I-I don't really remember what happened. I think I fell?" The last part came out sounding more pitiful than he had intended. Way to show them you can handle yourself, Robin, he thought.

Dick's face tightened, not bothering to hide his concern. He leaned in to examine Tim more closely. "We heard a gun go off, a yell, and something falling, and we lost sight of you. Are you sure that shot didn't hit you? Where does it—oh, man, your bleeding." Tim heard Dick's hands splash in the puddle under soaking his hair. "What happened to your head?" Dick's voice was getting higher and slightly panicked and Tim could feel Dick's fingers carefully prodding the back of his head.

At that moment Batman loomed over them, shining a flashlight that made Tim squeeze his eyes shut in pain. He wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he heard Batman's breath catch when he saw them. When Tim blinked his eyes open again, Bruce was kneeling beside him, taking charge of the situation.

"Nightwing, go to the end of the alley. The Batmobile will be there in 45 seconds." Dick got up and left with one very light, reassuring pat on Tim's shoulder and one worried backwards glance.

Bruce settled more fully into Tim's view as he continued to bark orders at Nightwing. "Bring a collar, a backboard, and the first aid kit." Bruce continued the inspection Dick had begun, lightly using his hands check for injuries. His voice was calm and even as he asked, "Robin, tell me what hurts."

Tim was familiar with this tone; Batman tended to use it when he wanted Tim to slow down and think. It snapped Tim into soldier mode, and he assessed himself quickly. "Head, neck, chest, back, and , uh, left elbow." He added as an afterthought, just noticing that his elbow was in a puddle similar to the one under his head. "My head and my chest are the worst. It's hard to breathe." The last sentence came out with a note of pleading, despite his best efforts to keep his voice neutral. He knew it was foolish to deny to Batman the extent of his injuries, but he didn't want to seem like a whiner either.

Batman nodded and leaned in for a closer look at Tim's head. Tim once again tried to lift his head but was restrained by Bruce's hand resting firmly on his forehead. "Tim, lie still."

Tim obeyed, though even in the midst of his pain he was feeling a bit self-conscious to be the object of this much scrutiny. He heard the door on the Batmobile slam and Nightwing's quick, soft footsteps heading back. Out of the corner of his eye Tim saw him kneel down, his arms full of medical equipment. Tim's heart gave a jump as he saw the collar and backboard, remembering the time he'd helped Alfred and Jean-Paul transport Batman home after Bane had broken Bruce's back. Tim had been so scared it he had barely kept his voice and hands steady; he had never been responsible for dealing with such a serious injury before. Were his current injures really that dire? Surely a short fall from the dumpster couldn't have broken anything that serious? Unfortunately, as he thought back to Batman's rigorously thorough first aid training, Tim couldn't actually prove that theory to himself. He thought if he had broken something serious it would hurt worse than it did currently, but he didn't really have extensive experience with being injured yet. Bruce had been quite cautious with him. He hoped this experience wouldn't be too traumatizing for Bruce—he didn't want to be benched indefinitely. He felt his pulse pounding as he began to think of Bruce's possible reaction, combined with thoughts about how serious his injuries might be.

He was just being panicky. He should calm down. He was starting to shake slightly, to feel cold despite the mild summer night. Dick and Bruce must have felt it as they put on the collar, strapped him in and lifted him up on the board (Tim felt several gauze pads placed under his head). He heard Bruce say quietly and firmly. "It's okay Robin. You're safe now." Dick quickly chimed in, keeping his tone light and cheerful. "Yeah, you're going to be fine, we'll be at the cave in no time, Alfred's fixed us up hundreds of times, this won't be any problem for him." Despite his encouragement, when Tim briefly caught sight of Dick's face his expression was strained.

They maneuvered Tim into the car, putting him across the backseat, Dick reclining the passenger seat and grabbing medical equipment. Tim was starting to get lightheaded and tried to take a deeper breath, but once again it wasn't a smart move and just caused him to start gasping and Dick to fumble slightly with the equipment. Tim needed more air desperately, but he really didn't think he could manage to breathe any deeper. Thankfully Dick took out a mask and put it on his face, and the extra oxygen soon eased the light headedness a bit; his shallow but steady breathing pattern resumed.

Tim had been proud of acing Bruce's demanding first aid tests, but right now he wished his brain would just shut up about the knowledge because he kept thinking of all sorts of nasty possibilities for what could be causing his symptoms. Dick's worry as he checked Tim's pulse and breathing were bad enough. At least Tim could count on Dick to try to keep him distracted.

"Hey buddy, let me take off your mask, make you more comfortable, take a little look at your eyes. There you go, easy does it. Ok, I'm going to shine a light into your eyes real quick, check your pupils, sorry about this, I always hate this test too. Just keep your eyes open for a bit… There. Nothing to worry about, your pupils look fine. Equal and reactive to light." he said a little louder, in Bruce's direction. Bruce seemed to be having a quiet conversation with Alfred; Tim couldn't concentrate enough to hear exactly what was said.

"Follow my finger with your eyes." Dick continued. That was trickier. Tim felt woozy. Dick seemed to notice his difficulty and asked "Are you having any trouble seeing?"

"Just a little trouble focusing, things look a little blurry around the edges. Might be just because I feel kinda dizzy, like I'm gonna pass out."

Dick moved so Tim could see his face more easily—it wasn't like Tim had much range of motion with the collar on. Dick gave one of his patented reassuring, brotherly smiles. "Ok, don't pass out, you don't want to sleep yet, not till you get a chance to have Alfred scold you, then try to feed you." Tim made a face. "Ok, no food right now." Dick continued. "If you feel like throwing up, please try not to, it's a pain to get that out of the costume, let alone the Batmobile. If you do feel like doing that anyway, you need to let me know right away, ok?" he said a bit more seriously. "I'll need to move you if you do. It's okay though, you can make it, I believe in you."

Dick checked the gauze he had placed under Tim's head and then checked his pulse, all the time applying pressure to Tim's bleeding elbow. He kept up a steady stream of encouraging chatter, while Batman kept up a steady stream of silent driving, interrupted every now and then with short sentences like—"How's the bleeding?" ,"Pulse and respiration?" or "ETA 3 minutes."

Tim thought about saying something to Bruce to reassure him—Bruce was never much of a talker, but Tim sensed the concern behind the focused, business-like statements. However, Tim couldn't get much volume right now; he'd have to try again in the cave. They'd be there soon.

 **This will be 3 parts. Please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

Tim managed not to pass out before they got the cave, mostly because Dick was bound and determined that he wouldn't, even going so far as telling old Titan stories, though the last step may have backfired since laughing didn't help with Tim's shortness of breath. He had just managed to regain his short, shallow breathing rhythm by the time the Batmobile pulled in to the cave.

Bruce and Dick wasted no time in whisking him out of the car and over to the medical area. It was disorienting to see everything from a flat position without being able to turn his head, and his stomach lurched. He breathed as slowly as possible for a second, closing his eyes until his body stopped moving. Upon opening them again he found Alfred looking over him. For a second, Tim though he might be getting a glimpse of the emotions behind Alfred's wonderfully controlled façade. Tim read concern in furrowed eyebrows and sympathy in the turn of his mouth. However, as soon as Alfred noticed his patient was conscious and observing him, the cooler, professional medical mask appeared; kind in a measured way, but more distant.

Alfred took his pulse and blood pressure while saying, "Master Timothy, I must ask you a few questions while we switch out your oxygen mask. Where does is hurt most, young sir?"

Same questions, same tests, and Tim had the same answers as before. The status of his head, neck, back, and elbow hadn't changed, though he had to admit that the pain in his chest had increased, which caused Alfred a brief brow furrow. Alfred turned to Bruce and instructed him to do something Tim didn't quite catch to his oxygen levels. As Alfred continued to instruct the other two uninjured parties to gather supplies and prepare medical instruments he cut off Tim's Robin tunic carefully at the seam lines. Tim figured he was trying to salvage as much as possible of the fabric and Kevlar plates. Since Tim had denied any problems with his legs or abdomen, the bottom of his uniform was left alone entirely, though Alfred did take off his boots and socks and asked him to move his toes. Satisfied with the motion, he asked Tim to stretch and tap his fingers, nodding at the results.

The stethoscope came next. Tim obediently tried to breathe as deeply as possible, but even his natural determination couldn't force much more air into his lungs—each breath was much lower in volume than Tim felt it should normally be. Alfred took his time listening, then clipped some kind of plastic monitoring device onto his finger and moved out of Tim's line of site, probably to check the associated machine.

At the same time, out of the corners of his eyes Tim could see Dick working at Tim's head and Bruce putting an IV into his arm, surprising Tim with how little pain he caused. Tim normally hated getting his blood drawn, but Bruce seemed to possess some unexpected skill at gently inserting needles. Tim supposed he must have had a fair amount of practice over the years whenever Jason or Dick had been seriously injured. Maybe he'd even worked on the Justice League, though Tim doubted non-sidekicks got a brief reassuring arm squeeze after he was done with the insertion.

Bruce moved to his other side, inspecting his injured elbow and placing on IV into his hand. While trying to watch him, Tim was once again struck by the idea that he might have shaken Bruce a bit; after losing Jason, seeing another sidekick in an urgent medical situation had to be at least a little traumatizing. In the past, Tim had observed an increase in what seemed to be protective and in his opinion even overprotective behavior from Bruce after Tim had received any injuries, even very minor ones or close calls. This was the first time Tim had been in serious distress physically. Bruce wouldn't freak out enough about it to fire him, would he? Tim's train of thought grew more anxious. How badly had he messed up? Had he been incompetent enough to deserve being fired? He should say something to reassure Bruce and start to turn the situation around.

"Thanks Bruce." he said quietly as Bruce secured the second IV line with tape. "Don't worry about me, I'll be alright." It was a bit lame, but in his defense his brain was a bit foggy and he felt like he was fading out again.

Bruce just said "Don't talk any more than necessary, Tim." Tim wondered if this was a one- time warning or whether it was Bruce revealing one of the rules he lived by. If the latter, it must have been right under the "No guns, no killing" rule based on the evidence of his usual taciturn personality.

"Yes, Master Timothy, you must stay calm and quiet. Your heart rate is increasing again. Master Richard, what have you discovered about that head injury?" asked Alfred.

The fingers that had been prodding gently at the back and side of his head disappeared. "It doesn't look that deep; if I was to guess, I would say it's just a scalp laceration. Lots of blood, but the skull seems intact. Probably not a bullet graze or anything deeper, thank God. Still, we heard a shot. Maybe it missed him." he said hopefully.

"That would indeed be ideal, Master Richard, but I rather suspect that your bullet did strike its target, though thankfully it was deterred by some well-placed Kevlar. This mark on the chest"—Tim hissed as a particularly sore spot high on the left side of his chest was lightly pressed—"could very well be from the bullet. Does that assessment agree with your memories of the incident, Master Timothy?"

Tim concentrated for a second. Fighting, gun, pain, falling. "Yeah. I'm kinda fuzzy on what happened, but what you said makes sense."

"Excellent. Surgery to search for a bullet is most untidy." Alfred smiled slightly, now in Tim's line of vision. "Gentlemen, will you please help to move our unfortunate victim over to the x-rays. I believe he is probably without serious injury to his various skeletal structures, and I assume he would like to be free of restraint to a board and collar."

The x-rays seemed to take almost no time, maybe because Tim found his thoughts drifting in an almost pleasant way and the intrusive headache was fading. His sluggish brain gave him a kick when it finally put the pieces together, telling him, "You idiot, they must have you on some pretty heavy painkillers right now, that's what the IV was for." Tim normally despised conscious-altering drugs (he liked to have his wits about him) but right at that moment he was just too tired to care. He found that his eyes kept closing for longer and longer periods.

"Master Timothy?" He opened his eyes and hummed an acknowledgement. "I see no serious problems with your spine on the x-rays; I expect that your neck and back pain is simply soreness from the fall. With a few days bed rest—and you will be on bed rest—you should make a full recovery. One of your ribs is cracked, you have what I believe is a mild concussion, and you have lacerations on your arm and head that must be sutured; apparently, you were unfortunate enough to land on a collection of broken glass. Master Bruce told me he observed a broken bottle in the alley, but since he could not be sure where the bullet had gone he thought it best to treat all open wounds as if they might be from the gun. I will be sedating you shortly to continue my work. Master Richard, will you remove the restraining devices to make Master Timothy more comfortable?"

"Sure thing, Alfred." Dick's face, wearing a relieved smile this time, was soon in Tim's view. Tim smiled back slightly as Dick gently removed the brace and ruffled his hair. "I see you've found the secret to a quick ride home."

"I'd prefer swinging." Tim said, weakly. Dick's hand rested on his head for a moment longer before he moved away. Tim moved his head to watch him prepare a syringe for Alfred; he winced as his sore neck muscles protested.

"Tim, lie still." Bruce's voice came from Tim's other side, and despite what was said he lifted his head and turned to look at Bruce. Tim still figured he would need to apologize and make light of this situation somehow if he wanted to keep his suit.

"Bruce, I'm sorry. I know I should have noticed the gun earlier and got out of the way quicker. I—"

"Hush." Bruce interrupted him, putting a hand on Tim's shoulder, guiding him down again. "You did notice the gun in time. Your opponent was on the other side of the dumpster, knocked off by your bo staff."

"Which I fished out of the dumpster for you." Dick cheerfully volunteered. Bruce turned to glare at him then turned back to Tim with a softer expression.

"Had you not noticed the gun and reacted as you did, he would have been able to take a headshot, and possibly have gone on to shoot at others as well. You took him out of the fight while taking the least amount of damage possible to yourself in that situation. There is more for you to learn, of course, but you did well, Robin. Now rest."

Tim blinked, surprised and a bit confused. He had expected something more gruff and brooding, something more like more correction than reassurance. He wondered if he had perhaps already fallen asleep and was dreaming this, but he saw Dick, who had known to wait so as not to interrupt one of Bruce's rare compliments, coming at him with a sedative and soon felt it jab at his arm. "Sleep well, buddy." he said.

Tim nodded, but then his head shot up suddenly. "My dad!" Tim's dad was out of town for the weekend, and Tim had already arranged to stay at Bruce's, but Tim's mind started racing with other issues he would have to deal with to explain what had happened to his father.

"We'll think of something to tell him." said Bruce. "Go to sleep."

Tim found he couldn't really fight for consciousness any longer, so he laid his head back down and let himself fade out.

 **Please review.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Tim was surprised to see when he woke up that he was still wearing an oxygen mask, and that he was still down in the cave. When Bruce broke a rib or had a concussion, he usually spent about 15 minutes being fussed over by Alfred then went on with life. Apparently, when it came to Robins, Alfred could keep them in medical confinement as long as he wanted. It hardly seemed fair. He wasn't injured all that bad, this was probably overkill. True, he still felt sore, even with the painkillers which were making him feel a bit out of it and keeping his memory slightly hazy. Breathing was still uncomfortable. The sensation reminded him of when he had bronchitis a few years back- it felt like his lungs wanted to be full, but could never quite fill up.

He squirmed around slightly, restless and not sure what to do next except lay back, look at the ceiling, and count the bats. He wasn't sure he was capable of getting out of bed, but he was dead certain he would be in serious trouble if he tried without permission; it was probably best to wait.

Thankfully, Alfred must have noticed his movements and came from whatever corner of the cave the English butler always vanished into just to appear again the moment Tim needed him. "Good morning, Master Timothy. How are you feeling today?" Alfred nodded at Tim, setting down a cup he had been carrying and gathering up a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff.

"Ok. Much better than last night." Tim said, croaking a bit. Wearing the oxygen mask had not been kind on his voice.

Alfred helped Tim to a sitting position, supporting him with lots of pillows. He removed the mask and pressed the cup into Tim's hands. "Ice chips, sir."

Tim was beginning to realize the source of Batman's philosophy of always being prepared. "Thanks." he whispered, and was silent as Alfred examined him, letting the ice melt slowly in his mouth.

Alfred seemed to take quite a long time with his stethoscope this time, longer than yesterday. He also made Tim blow into some instrument as hard as he could; he remembered this test from his bout with bronchitis. He was pretty sure he was failing it today.

Alfred put his tools away and said. "Despite your positive self-assessment, young sir, I believe your condition warrants a second opinion. Dr. Thompkins shall be coming shortly. I tried to get in contact with her last night, but she was in the middle of a trauma case of her own at the clinic. By the time she was done, you seemed stable, but I thought it prudent to have her examine you in the morning. She will be arriving shortly."

Tim looked at Alfred, frowning. "I don't think you need to bother Leslie. It didn't sound bad when you explained it to me last night. Has something gotten worse?" he hoped that sounded matter of fact, not scared or pitiful.

Alfred stiffened slightly. "Young man, Dr. Leslie would never consider your heath a bother, and she assured me the trip would not cause her any inconvenience. As for your condition, I am concerned at your continued breathing difficulties. Though not too pronounced, they necessitate further investigation." Tim couldn't help looking a little concerned at this. Alfred must have noticed, because he made a show of arranging Tim's pillows again, clasping Tim's shoulder briefly in the process, and said, "We could speed Dr. Leslie's investigations along by drawing some blood and taking additional chest x-rays to have ready when she arrives. I will summon Master Bruce to assist in moving you."

Bruce came down shortly after Alfred finished drawing Tim's blood, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, but then again, Tim thought he always kind of looked like that. "How are you feeling?" Bruce asked right away. The tone wasn't unkind, but it did make the question more a demand for information than an opportunity for commiseration.

"Ok." Tim stuck by his earlier assessment, despite Alfred's worrying. Bruce stared at him a moment, then looked at Alfred, apparently wanting more than a one word response, which seemed slightly hypocritical to Tim.

"I still have concerns about his lungs, sir." said Alfred. "I would appreciate it if you would wheel him over to the x-rays."

Bruce grunted an acknowledgement of the request and started to move the gurney. Tim once again felt awkward at being the center of everyone's attention. This feeling only increased when Leslie showed up and immediately came over to start her own examination.

"Ok Tim, let's see what the damage is this time, sweetheart. So far, I think I've seen you the least out of all the Robins in their first year. I hope that means you've been careful, not that you've been trying to deal with injuries on your own."

"I've been careful, Dr. Leslie." Tim left the last part of her statement alone. He only hid injuries and dealt with them on his own when his mentor was incapacitated or unavailable. Admittedly, his mentor had been out with a broken back for months within the last year, but he had coped.

Leslie nodded, her expression still a bit skeptical, and she went over to Alfred to take a look at his x-rays and lab findings. Bruce and Tim both sat silently waiting, each absorbed in thought, or, truth be told, brooding.

After a few minutes, Tim broke the silence with a question that had been bothering him since he woke up. "Did you talk to my dad yet?"

"No." said Bruce. "He would expect to be called shortly after you were injured, and calling him at two AM would have led to questions we couldn't answer. Since your condition was stable, I though it better to wait for a time during the day when it would be more plausible for you to be hurt. It's now two PM; your dad can be called as soon as Leslie gives us her report."

Tim nodded, slowly and with as little movement as possible so as not to make the vague headache he felt worse. He was disappointed in himself for not coming to the same conclusion Bruce had. His brain must be fuzzy still; he also hadn't known or cared about the time until Bruce had mentioned it.

Tim tried to recover by adding at least one helpful suggestion to show he still had his wits about him. "Let me talk to my dad. He'll deal with it better if I talk to him—someone else talking to him will just make him freak out about how bad it is."

Tim didn't say it, but he also knew that Bruce calling would put his dad immediately on edge. His dad had been touchy about the subject of Bruce for quite a while, ever since Tim had left Bruce to go live with his dad again. It was only by catching his dad in a good mood and having his girlfriend Dana in the room to discourage old arguments that Tim had managed to get permission to visit with Bruce and Dick for a long weekend.

Bruce nodded his agreement with Tim before getting up to make room for Alfred and Leslie. Leslie performed some standard concussion checks on Tim, checked his sutures, and did a lengthy examination with the stethoscope similar to Alfred's earlier.

"Let me see that spot on your chest, honey." she said. She unbuttoned the pajama top and very lightly probed at the mark on his chest, which was looking ugly. Even the pain medication he was on couldn't keep Tim from flinching during the probing.

Leslie re-buttoned his shirt. "Well, Tim, you should be very grateful right now for Kevlar. You should make a full recovery, but only if you follow my instructions carefully." She fixed Tim with a serious expression "Alfred and I believe we've detected a bruise on your lung behind the cracked rib. It's small, and since we caught it early and you were in good health before the accident, it should clear up in three to five days. But you will need to stay in bed, stay on oxygen, and have Alfred monitor your fluid intake carefully. I know you don't like pain medication, and Alfred will be weaning your off it slowly, but if that affects your breathing you'll have to stay at a higher dose."

"But it's only two more days till my Dad comes back!" Tim protested. He'd been coming up with a number of excuses to tell his dad, but none of them would explain an oxygen mask and complete bed rest.

Leslie pursed her lips. In the past, she had let Tim know that she didn't approve of him keeping his double life from his father; thankfully, however, she seemed to be deciding it was not the time to have that argument again. "If you are breathing well, with minimal painkillers, by Monday, it would be acceptable, though not ideal, for you to rest at home. You would have to keep up with your medication, including the antibiotic I'm putting you on to prevent pneumonia, and you will have to update Alfred regularly, and honestly, about your condition. However, if you are not at that point by the end of three days, you will be staying here or at a hospital. Those are the facts, honey. Adjust your story to your dad accordingly."

As a compromise, it was fair enough. Leslie probably knew asking for too much would just make him uncooperative. "Understood." he said, looking her straight in the eyes and hoping she could see he was taking her seriously.

Leslie held his gaze for a moment; her expression softened, and she smiled. "I'll see you again on Sunday night. Feel better, Tim."

"Thanks, Dr. Leslie." He said. She nodded and was soon on her way out, Alfred walking beside her.

After they left, Bruce handed Tim his phone. Tim took a deep breath and put in a call to his dad. Jack answered on the second ring, not giving Tim much time to compose himself. "Hello, son. What's up?"

His dad still sounded like he was in a good mood making Tim feel a little extra guilty that he was giving him bad news.

"Hi, Dad." Tim paused and took as deep a breath as he could. "Hey, I'm calling because, um, I sort of had an accident today at the pool…" He trailed off, waiting for his dad's reaction.

"What did you do? Are you hurt? Where's Bruce?" Tim could hear annoyance, anger, and worry in his dad's voice. He would have to speak carefully if he wanted his dad to calm down.

"Someone ran into me, accidentally, and I fell on the cement. The doctors think I have a concussion and I had to get stiches on my elbow and the back of my head. Bruce is right beside me. He got me to the hospital as quick as possible." Tim tried to sound like it wasn't a big deal. The story would be consistent with the idea of hanging out with friends on a summer weekend, and would cover his more noticeable injuries. Confessing to having a concussion would give him an excuse to stay in bed.

"Are you at the hospital now?" Tim's dad still didn't sound much calmer, but he also didn't seem to be getting more worked up about the situation either. Tim figured he was doing okay.

"Yeah, they're just discharging me. I'll be fine; I just need to rest for a week."

"You should have called me right away, son. I have a right to know when you're injured." His dad's slightly hurt tone made Tim wince slightly.

"There wasn't anything you could have done but worry. I didn't want to call you till I had all the information."

"Are you still staying with Bruce? Can I talk with him?" Tim had been hoping to avoid having the two of them talk, but his dad's request was well within reason, so it seemed unavoidable now.

"Yeah, I'll be staying with him and Alfred and Dick. They all said they'd be happy to look after me. Here's Bruce." He handed over the phone.

Bruce's conversation with his dad was short but from Tim's perspective it went as well as could be expected. Bruce talked in calm, even tones with just the right amount of sympathy. Tim's dad had been rescued by Bruce Wayne (as himself) in the past, and Tim had spent quite a while under his guardianship, so Bruce didn't have to act like an air-headed socialite—it would be counterproductive.

From the part of the conversation Tim could hear, it sounded like his dad just wanted confirmation of Tim's story and that Tim was being properly looked after. He probably wasn't saying anything too accusatory to Bruce.

After a few minutes Bruce handed the phone back to Tim.

"Are you sure you'll be alright there for a few days? Maybe I could try to come home sooner?" his dad sounded a bit anxious, like he always did if he felt he might be accused of blowing off Tim, but really wanted to continue with what he was doing.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Tim assured him. "Dick and Bruce will keep me amused, and Bruce says Alfred's a great nurse when you need him to be. Go ahead and enjoy your vacation. I'll see you on Monday."

"Okay." His dad was relatively calm now. "Be careful and do what the doctors say. I'll see you in a few days. Bye, son."

"Bye, Dad." Tim hung up and sighted inwardly. Lying to his dad always left him feeling a bit drained. He had probably also been up long enough now to reach to limit of his diminished energy. Bruce must have noticed the slump of his shoulders and his drooping eyes; he moved the pillows that were propping Tim up and guided him back down.

"Get some more sleep, Tim." he said. He got up and went over to one of the cave's computers, close enough for Tim to call if he had any problems. Tim closed his eyes to Bruce in his computer chair and was asleep almost instantly.

He woke up to the sound of someone grunting as if they were lifting a heavy object. He opened his eyes to see Dick carrying a large TV set to a stand placed at the foot of his bed. Tim noticed that a comfy-looking chair had been moved to the side of his bed while he slept.

"Hey Timmy." Dick greeted him cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." Tim said. Nothing hurt worse than it had before, and breathing seemed to be slightly less difficult.

"Alfred's fixing dinner upstairs, I'll tell him you're up and he'll bring it right down. In the meantime, behold." Dick pointed to the TV set-up, then to a stack of DVD's next to the chair. "I've been waiting forever to have a movie marathon with you. I brought you choices: Horror, Action, Disney, Sci-Fi, Fantasy. What's your pleasure?"

"Fantasy." Tim said decidedly.

"Thought so. You're in luck, I have six films meant to amaze and astonish, and we have all weekend to work on them. Let's get started!"

Tim smiled at Dick's as he watched him pop in the first DVD. He felt slightly bad that Dick had to spend all weekend babysitting him; he must have better uses for his time, but at least he acted like he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Maybe this weekend wouldn't be a total waste; after all, didn't Dick deserve a little downtime as well? And if Dick had to use the excuse of amusing an injured Robin to make time to goof off, Tim was glad to play along. Dick readjusted Tim's bedding so he could get a better view of the TV and they both settled in for their weekend marathon.

"Don't forget your medication and recommended fluid intake schedule. Dr. Thompkins and I worked quite hard to make it as simple as possible. You may be stable enough to convalesce in your father's care, but that does not mean you should stop taking steps to prevent pneumonia." Alfred lectured from the front seat.

"I'll remember." Tim promised. He was sitting in the back seat next to Bruce. It was Monday morning, and he was feeling much improved. He was still sore and it hurt when he took a deep breath but he could walk around the cave without tiring himself out and Alfred and Leslie had both pronounced him well enough to go home.

"Most importantly, young sir, please remember to check in every four hours over the prearranged computer link. Master Bruce will be most agitated and impossible to deal with if you miss a call."

Tim glanced sideways at Bruce, expecting him to scowl or make some protest to Alfred's teasing. Instead, he found that the corner of Bruce's lip quirked upward just slightly, as if in knowing agreement.

"Here we are, Master Timothy." said Alfred. Tim's house was just next door to the manor, the drive had taken only a few minutes over the extensive Wayne property. Tim usually took this trip underground. The top view was nice.

Alfred got out and opened the door for Bruce, who went around and opened the door for Tim. He placed a hand lightly on Tim's shoulder blade as Tim got out, and he left it there as they approached Tim's house, ready to pass Tim's care over to his father. Tim was sure his dad would be relieved to see him, and Dana would be at her sweetest trying to take care of him, but he still couldn't quite get rid of a feeling of regret as he gave Alfred and Bruce a quick wave goodbye from his doorstep.

 **Thanks for reading! I had fun writing this; I have some more ideas for Tim and hope to write more stories for him in the future. Since I'm finishing this on July 19** **th** **, happy Tim's birthday!**

 **(Updated July 26; I noticed some typos and formatting errors). Please review.**


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